Beacon
by whychenbachfall
Summary: Post-Reichenbach oneshot. Sad. Angsty. Very short, but guaranteed to stay in the back of your mind for a while. John has never acted the same since Sherlock's return.


'Three times I asked you to tidy away your things in the kitchen. Three times.' The bedroom illuminated as John entered, perching on the end of Sherlock's bed and frowning.

'Yes, and three times I have ignored you in the hope that you would become impatient and clean it up. I'm disappointed that nothing has been changed.'

Sherlock Holmes rolled over in his bed and pulled up the duvet, burying himself. John's eyebrows furrowed as he glared at the unresponsive lump laid before him, before sighing and giving up; realising that attempting to reason with the stubborn detective would have been pointless.

Three sharp knocks at the door took John by surprise, and Sherlock released a groan so loud that the entire bed seemed to shake underneath him.

'That'll be Mrs Hudson coming to check on the latest case. Be a dear and let her in will you John? And make her a cup of tea or something- I probably won't be responsive for another twenty minutes or so.'

'Since when do you need sleep?'

'Recently I've just felt physically drained. I couldn't possibly explain why, although I must say I can't complain. Door.'

'Oh no; you haven't done housework for weeks. You're getting up, and you're going to answer the door, and I'm going to sit and watch television. See how you like it.'

'Television provides no satisfaction for me John; you should know that by now. However I will give in to your little tantrum.' He rolled out of bed and landed spryly on his feet, gliding out of his bedroom and to the front door.

'Sherlock, the mess in this room. I do wish you would tidy up after yourself, just for once.'

'I do like how you assume I was the cause of the mess.'

'Well really Sherlock, who else is it going to be?' John chuckled.

'It's awfully bright in here isn't it? I'll turn it down a tick.' Mrs Hudson fiddled with the array of dials on the wall, getting increasingly more flustered as nothing happened in response. 'You'll have to get that looked at I'm afraid, I think you may have blown a fuse. I'm not good with electricity myself but-'

'Is there any reason for you being here so early, Mrs Hudson?'

'It's 1:15pm' John muttered.

'Well I came to see if you wanted a chat. You haven't exactly been social recently- or what you could call social when talking about you.'

'Ha!' John exclaimed from his armchair. 'Sherlock Holmes, social? That's not something I hear often.'

'You certainly aren't helping matters with your electricity by having that blasted television on all the time Sherlock!' Mrs Hudson switched off the monitor and began to tidy things away, and Sherlock instinctively switched it back on- crossing his arms with a stubborn grimace.

'I don't want you to tidy, you'll do it all…wrong. Things don't- NO no that does NOT go in that cupboard, how on earth am I supposed to get my bone marrow supplies to fit?'

As Sherlock hastily rearranged his living room, Mrs Hudson's attention was caught by a portrait taken of John which was sitting on the fireplace- a portrait from the day he joined the army.

'So handsome, my goodness.' She smiled and glanced around.

John beamed from his chair and thanked her, tilting to look at the ground before his face flushed an entirely indescribable shade of red.

'Of course, John Watson always looks handsome.' Sherlock smiled down at him and perched on the edge of his armchair, observing the way John's palms began to twitch as soon as he neared.

It was only recently that Sherlock Holmes had accepted his love for John Watson. When he returned to Baker Street years after the terrible fall, John had not moved. He waited, **_believed. _**He had set up campaigns, petitions, and protest groups dedicated to clearing Sherlock's name- well, he refused to admit that he had- but they were there. And Sherlock was certain he played some part in their construction. The nightmares Sherlock had in the weeks following would wake him in the early hours of the morning, writing and screaming. John was there always, sitting by his bedside, telling him everything would be ok. He was the only person Sherlock could believe.

The idea of sex never appealed to Sherlock, but that wasn't what he required from John, and John was more than too happy to compromise. Sherlock loved John for everything that he was- beautiful, kind, compassionate, intelligent, brave, everything he could possibly require to be happy.

When Sherlock told the people he knew of his accepted attachment, they simply nodded with a sad smile.

Mrs Hudson left and Sherlock placed a cup of tea on the table in front of John. John's head tilted questioningly, lips twitching gently into a sort of smile. 'You never make tea.'

'Well, you never drink it. It worries me how little you drink, or eat- I've barely seen you move since I've been back.'

'You've only been back two weeks Sherlock, bearing in mind I've had to cope for two years believing the only person I've loved has taken his own life, only for him to appear on my doorstep one afternoon like he'd gone to get the milk. Another impossible notion, I know.'

Sherlock took hold of John's hands and lifted him from the chair, the taller man wrapping his arms around his shoulders- taking in every possible scent and essence he could absorb. 'I was thinking of going back to work today, seeing if Lestrade would consider working with me now that my name is not as smeared.'

'I think Lestrade would be overjoyed to see you.'

'Nowhere near as I was to see you.' Sherlock sat on the armchair and pulled John down onto his lap. The world paused as the two slowly drifted off to sleep, and by the time they woke up, five hours had passed.

'Don't go working now.' John mumbled into Sherlock's neck, sending shivers up his back and making his head spin.

'Come out with me. On a date.'

'We always go on dates.'

'They've never been official. A date to Speedy's, as a couple.'

'Sounds good to me.'

A few minutes later, Sherlock was flicking through the menu at Speedy's, snatching glances at John from over the top of the thin plastic card. John was distant, but smiling. With his smile, the room seemed to brighten and glow, as if he had an aura of peace and happiness.

'Good evening, are you ready to order?' The waiter placed Sherlock's glass down and took out her notepad.

'The sharing platter, please.'

'Oh good, I hope you're hungry!' She smiled at them and wandered off, leaving a mesmerized John Watson gazing at Sherlock.

'What? What do you find so fascinating?'

'You. Your structure, your face, cheeks, eyes- it's almost inhumanly beautiful.'

'The fact that you could see something like that in somebody as cold and heartless as me is inhuman in itself.'

'You have a heart Sherlock, it just needs to be repaired.'

Later that night, Sherlock was squatting in his usual position on the sofa. His eyes were glazed over in thought and he was tapping his fingers together. John was pacing back and forward, biting on his fingernails and grunting occasionally in thought.

'Are you going to tell me what has you so silent?' he called to Sherlock.

'You didn't eat.'

'I haven't been hungry recently.'

'I ordered a sharing platter and ate all of it. Why didn't you eat?'

'I promise you, I'm just not hungry at all. Besides, I ate a huge cooked breakfast before you woke up this morning.'

'I need you to promise me something, John. You're not ill are you?'

'Now what makes you think that?' John sat next to Sherlock and rested his hand on the trembling man's knee.

'You barely ever eat or drink. You seem to be really averse to touching me also, and you're usually so reluctant to go out. You seem weak, John.'

'I just haven't allowed myself to accept that I have you back for good. I have dreams every day that I'll wake up and you won't be there- that this will all be a figure of my imagination and you really died in that fall. It just doesn't seem possible and I can't let myself get comfortable in case I end up losing you again. I love you, Sherlock Holmes, and if you left me- I just wouldn't cope.'

'I swear to never leave you, if you swear to stay with me.'

'I swear.'

Sherlock pulled John to his feet and into their first embrace since he returned. The embrace seemed different, cold, as if John was plagued with worry and concern about the future, or the past, or something he knew he had no control over.

When Sherlock awoke the next morning, John Watson was nowhere to be seen. It wasn't the first time it had happened this week; John liked to go out for walks. His leg played up for quite a while when Sherlock was gone. When Sherlock checked his phone for any sign of a message, there was a frantic voicemail from Molly- a body which could only be described as entirely eviscerated had arrived at the morgue and she didn't know how to proceed. Sherlock's heart skipped a beat as he entertained the possibility of going back to work; after a few minutes of consideration he hopped in a taxi and was off.

Molly beamed when she saw Sherlock, asking how he had been adjusting and complimenting how easily he had slipped back into his usual routine. He smirked and began to examine the body – or rather, what remained of it.

'Do you have many plans left for today?' She played with her hair anxiously.

'Hm, no. I'll probably go home and rearrange the furniture, or something tedious as such.'

'Would you fancy maybe going for a drink after this? Obviously, I'd wash up first. I mean the blood, obviously- I wouldn't have a shower just for a drink with you. Well not to say I wouldn't make an effort, I obviously would, I mean-'

'Molly, I'm spoken for.'

'You're seeing someone?'

'You know exactly who I'm seeing.' The lights flickered.

She lowered her head and started twiddling her thumbs. 'You really are dedicated. That's love.'

'I know; although I hate to admit it.'

The door clicked and Lestrade walked in, closely followed by John. Sherlock grinned at the two of them, and John wrapped his hand automatically around Sherlock's waist without a second thought. Lestrade rested his hand on Sherlock's shoulder and Sherlock shrugged him off.

'I may seem emotionally fragile to you Lestrade but that does not mean my boundaries on public displays of affection have been revoked. Obviously there are some exceptions.' He glanced to his right and smiled at John.

'I'm quite surprised you stayed with this body after determining the cause of death.' Lestrade murmured, after glancing at Sherlock's case notes.

'I **_Faked_** my suicide Lestrade, I didn't actually go through with it. I can stomach seeing cowardly enough to take their own life, even if they did jump from an incredibly high bridge.' The lights flickered once more.

'Cowardly?'

'Cowardly. You can't face the consequences of whatever stupidity you have caused? You take the coward's way out.'

'You can probably justify it if you're submitted to Donavon's horrific Christmas karaoke, but otherwise I understand what you mean.' John whispered. Sherlock tilted his hair to hear and chuckled.

'Good one.'

Lestrade frowned and his phone rang sharply. He glanced at the screen and went to leave, beckoning Molly to follow him. John sat on the empty table near the cadaver, swinging his legs absent mindedly.

'So Sherlock, I'm assuming you hate the story of Romeo and Juliet.'

'How so?'

'One took their own life for the loss of the other. You're saying you'd never do that?'

'John Watson, that's an entirely different matter. At this point, you are the only thing I have left to breathe for. I have no attachments; the majority of the media still doesn't trust me. I barely get pleasure from work anymore. I live for you. So if you are asking- yes, I would probably take my own life if I were to lose you.'

'Then I'll ensure I'm with you until the end of time.'

'Extraordinarily improbable, but not impossible. I'd like to see you try.' Sherlock leant against the table and John wrapped his legs around Sherlock's waist, pulling him closer.

'I love you, you arrogant bastard.'

'I love you too, you brave soldier.'

'Swear?'

'Swear.'

A polite cough came from the door and Sherlock turned his head to spot Molly, gently rocking back and forward on the balls of her feet. 'Lestrade needs to speak to you- please. He's waiting outside in the car.

Sherlock turned around to beckon John forward and Molly mumbled 'Just you. Alone.'

The lights flickered. Sherlock waved John goodbye and went to the car. The journey was completely silent, with Lestrade refusing outright to answer any of Sherlock's questions until they had reached the destination. Lestrade pulled over outside a dark, desolate looking field shrouded in fog and surrounded by large, imposing brick walls. It was only as they began to walk into the field that small stone structures were forming in the fog, in front of Sherlock's eyes. An extraordinary sense of déjà vu washed over Sherlock, and his head began to ache and scream. There was an enormous amount of pressure behind his eyes, and he couldn't focus on anything he wanted to.

'Mrs Hudson is worried about you.'

'That's not entirely a shocking development- Mrs Hudson worries about the binman's safety if he doesn't arrive on time.'

'She hears you talking a lot, mostly at night. Through the walls?'

'Well of course, I'm not going to live my life in silence.'

'Understandable.'

They walked a few more meters and Sherlock's legs began to shake and weaken underneath him. An overwhelming nausea hit him and he staggered slightly to the right, quickly regaining his composure.

'The phone call I received earlier was from the owner of Speedy's.'

'Missing you already?'

'He's been approached by a few concerned customers. They've seen you sat in the evenings,-'

'Yes, I enjoy going for meals, is there a problem with that?'

'You've been having conversations with yourself.'

'I know John is small but he's not exactly invisible, some people really anger me with their inobservance sometimes.'

'So you've been eating with John?'

There was a sharp pop in the back of Sherlock's head, and he lost vision for a few seconds. His headache was unbearable and he began to gasp, rubbing his temples and closing his eyes.

'Sherlock, please look down.'

The dark stone structure in front if his feet began to move into focus and the words that formed on its surface briefly crossed Sherlock's eyes.

_John Watson_

_(1971-2012)_

_Brother_

_Doctor_

_Friend_

'John Watson took his own life on the one year anniversary of your jump. It was a quick death, a shot to the head. But he's gone, Sherlock.'

_Flicker_

'The person you have been speaking to is not John Watson.'

_Flicker_

'I'm sorry.'

_Flicker_

**_'Swear?'  
'Swear.'_**

He sank to his knees, and down into the ground, into the pool of mortification swallowing every limb and cell of his body, constricting his senses and emotions and love and hatred and desperately tearing away the only hope that remained and would never remain again- choking and gasping and asphyxiating on the inevitable excruciation which promised to shroud his mind for the rest of his apparently pitiful existence-

**_And then there was darkness._**


End file.
